


drunk on honey wine

by rikacain



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: I don't know what I'm doing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-19
Updated: 2014-05-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 18:00:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1657379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rikacain/pseuds/rikacain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A friend forgotten and recalled; a world unknown brought into light. Enjolras does not appreciate a sudden onset of selective amnesia, and neither do the Amis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	drunk on honey wine

**Author's Note:**

> I never thought I'd actually post this up, but um. Slightly inspired by [These Violent Delights Have Violent Ends](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1058444) by [morethanthedark](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Kayndred/pseuds/morethanthedark), who returned my comments about her awesomeness at world-building and I really appreciate that thank you I love world building like you would not believe.
> 
> I actually did not intend to post this up, but after not writing for a really long while while my WIPs were sitting in a Google Drive and being generally pathetic I thought that if I tried to kickstart myself into finishing something it'll set me back on the path. Bear with me with my even wonkier writing.

Something is missing.

He cannot tell, with the chaos of everyday life; with the dissenting voices of the general populace against their monarchy to listen to, to encourage into something stronger, something fierce and dangerous. He knows perfectly well what he is doing, what will follow should they attempt to stir the people into revolting against the state. He is young but never naive. 

But the time is not ripe (not yet) and he plans, taking smaller (but vastly important) steps day by day. He gathers Combeferre and Courfeyrac and the rest of the Les Amis de L’Abaisse (or as Jehan suggests as he laughs nights ago, _the Les Amis de L’ABC, isn’t that a great pun, - ?_ and takes a delicately small gulp from a green muddied bottle) in the Cafe Musain almost every day, and even when classes restricts him from attending the rest gather by themselves. They are true to their cause, unlike -

Unlike the apathetic, unlike the rats who have sunk so low into the shadows of the gutter they have learnt how to wield darkness far too well. These people he does not approach, for he knows that they merely ignore. Hatred is a lesser friend, indifference is his enemy. He will not get brothers from the lot.

His finger traces along a ring of water seeped into the wood itself. Although they partake of the cafe’s watered-down wine and ale, to his knowledge no one is careless with their tankard or bottle. Bahorel favours his tankard and keeps it unspilt, sloppy only while he drinks; Bossuet spills and therefore shares his drinks with Joly. The room belongs entirely to them, and no one else enters save for a dishwasher.

It is nothing to mull over, however. There may be suspicion of the presence of an interloper, someone who enters while they are away; but they will have but little to gain. The most important of the incriminating details are kept within their heads.

(Except something has been missing for quite a while now, and it scratches at him to not know what is not there.)

It happens again during a lull of one of their more passionate debates within the club - today it is Robespierre once again, and he takes a breath, preparing to ignore -

But Feuilly speaks up, unsure but steady in his knowledge, and he is not supposed to ignore that. He blinks almost owlishly in confusion, before continuing on.

No one notices the pause he took, the pause he gave to someone who is not there. 

Bahorel turns up more often and with less bruises to show for his brawls. Jehan leaves poems all over the place, but for some reason his prose turns dark and melancholy; when questioned he cannot (or will not) answer why. Bossuet’s face is grim at times and is often in quiet discussion with Joly, but perhaps another unfortunate incident had befallen him.

(He says this, even though he knows Bossuet’s bad luck does nothing to faze his smile. There are no other explanations.)

“Who isn’t here,” he asks one day when Courfreyrac has finally convinced him to meet at the Corinthe if only for a change of scenery. He frowns at the lot of them - Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Joly, Bossuet, Bahorel, Feuilly, Jehan -

Bahorel, Joly, Combeferre, Jehan, Feuilly, Courfreyrac, Bossuet -

Jehan, Bossuet, Feuilly, _where is_ -

“Marius did not come,” Courfeyrac offers, his grin wide and uncertain. He realises that he has been staring (glaring) at his friends unnervingly for the past few minutes, and turns to his awaiting friend.

“That must be it,” he agrees, though it is not. Although they could be considered acquaintances, Marius is not a friend.

He comes back to the water ring at inopportune moments, the dark of the mark contrasting clearly against the wood. It seems important; even so, he cannot be distracted from the plight of those who are oppressed, of those living on the streets of Paris under those who reside in luxury with their palaces and courts.

The tipping mark is today, because something is missing and he must know what; and today Jean Prouvaire waxes, “R for Revolution, R for Robespierre, R for Romanticism -” 

And R for the flash of a person who sits at the back of the room with his full glass sloshing down the sides; black curls and wide mocking grin as he tears greater and lesser men down into mere equals; bright blue eyes as he stares at the front of the room where he is standing still -

“R for grand R,” he says, and everyone turns to look at him in surprise and confusion.

Enjolras stands and addresses the room. “Where is Grantaire?”

* * * * *

“Grand R,” Bahorel repeats, testing the words on his lips. “It is in the alphabet, of course.” He laughs loud and raucous at his joke; Courfeyrac joins in heartily. Enjolras frowns at them.

But the room is otherwise silent and waiting, and after a moment he realises that they are waiting for him. “Grantaire,” he repeats himself. “Where is the drunkard?” 

“I may favour the company of wine and women, Enjolras, but to call me a drunkard may be too exaggerated a description,” Courfeyrac protests.

“Courfeyrac, I know fully well that you do not imbibe in alcohol to an extreme. I ask again, where is Grantaire? Has he finally tired of mocking our cause and decided to drink his days away?” He frowns, but Grantaire’s own appearance in his mind has started to slip - black curls and blue eyes and calloused fingers round a green bottle; the face is a muddied smear of paint. He cannot remember. “Jehan,” and the poet looks vaguely startled at being addressed. “Do you know of his whereabouts?”

“Whose whereabouts?” he answers slowly.

Combeferre lays a gentle hand on his elbow before he could reply. “Enjolras,” he poses the question quietly. “Are you feeling unwell?”

“Far from it,” he replies, but the feeling of missing something has been plaguing him for the last few days. “Why?” he asks, his tone sharp.

“We know no one by the name of Grantaire,” he answers, and Enjolras’ frown becomes deeper. “It has only been the nine of us, from the very beginning." 

“You say nine, Combeferre. Count how many of us are here today.”

Combeferre obliges, and his frown matches Enjolras’. “Eight,” he admits.

“Marius is not here - “ Courfreyrac puts forth.

“Marius may not be here but we have never truly included him in our activities. Combeferre, you say nine but you have counted eight. Surely you can see that someone is missing.”

“Perhaps it was merely a slip of the tongue,” Feuilly puts forth, unconvinced. “Men have been known to miscount.”

"How did you meet us, Jehan?" Enjolras demands, cutting across Feuilly sharply. It is rude and the older man shoots him an unhappy glance, but he needs to make his point. "You learn a different profession from those who are present; how then, did we meet?"

"I - " Jehan stutters, looking lost as his bravery fails him in a matter he is unclear of, "I don't remember - "

"That is enough, Enjolras," and he turns away from Jehan - but it is not Combeferre who had spoken. Bossuet stares at him, weariness upon his face. "Jehan will not recall a friend he has forgotten." 

"Forgotten? Is his worth so little that he is forgotten like a bourgeois gentleman forgets a handkerchief?"

"You have forgotten him too," Bossuet says, sharply and Enjolras sucks in a breath.

"I remember him now," he says, but he all of a sudden he realises that cannot remember even his name. Grangé? Gran - something.

Everything about this man is slipping away, and he does not understand.

"I would have not expected you to remember him at all," Bossuet continues, and in his voice is a foreign tone - disdain? no, it is too harsh a word; accusation? - his demeanour, only slightly hostile. “Of all people, you would be the last.” 

“Bossuet,” warns Joly, soft.

Bossuet looks fleetingly at his closest friend. “Grant me this selfishness while he still remembers,” he asks of the man. Turning back, he continues. “What do you recall of our friend?”

Black curls, blue eyes, _no_ \- “Tell me his name,” Enjolras says quickly, for his memory is slipping into yet another fog although he can still recall the exact words his professor spoke this morning and more. “What was his name, tell me -”

“You would do better to remember him as R, as Grand R,” Bossuet tells him, after a moment’s pause. “You cannot forget a letter of the alphabet after all.”

And he does not. Combeferre watches Bossuet almost unnervingly; Courfeyrac looks to Enjolras, visibly confused. The rest of their motley crew look at each other. 

“How did you remember him,” Enjolras says - no, he demands. He may not have a fondness for R (and now black curls and bright eyes remain, but nothing else save for a general feeling of disdain) but he does not appreciate this onset of selective amnesia.

“Remember who,” Bahorel says. “R is a person?”

“R is a person,” Joly confirms. “Sit, Enjolras. What we are about to relay is almost impossible to believe, but true.”

* * * * *

 _The fey are real_ , Grantaire once told Bossuet, many days after the beginning of their companionship and after Bossuet had broken the mirror. _They are not the beautiful beings many paint them to be - they are glamourous and treacherous, through both magicks and being, and this makes them all the more alluring_. 

Bossuet fingered the small pouch around his neck, his ears barely hearing the crunch of ground glass being rubbed against each other. _And you would know, Monseuir Grantaire_ , he railed gently.

 _I would_ , Grantaire agreed loudly. _But it is not your fey you would need to worry over - he is a persistent fellow, but not malicious. No, there are much worse fey that lies in wait, in plain sight - just waiting to ensnare you into being their amusement. The fey of the Court_.

Bossuet blinked. Next to him, Joly (whom they had included in their confidence for the sole virtue of being both their friends and a dear one at that) leant closer, a frown marring his brows. _You know much_.

 _That I do_.

_And you are allowed this knowledge?_

Grantaire shook his head, a lazy smile spreading across his countenance. _What the fey do not know will not hurt them,_ he murmured, a quiet respite from his usually loud rants _. I keep myself unknown with hard liquor and no talent to speak of. Fey like pretty things, special things. I, my dear friends, am far from special_. His smile has taken on a bland note, and Bossuet hurriedly filled the glass with more wine.

 _To obscurity_. Joly raised his glass, taking the cue.

 _To obscurity_ , Bossuet echoed.

 _To obscurity_ , they drank.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone else is interested -
> 
> I've two more drafts sitting in my Drive; one serial killer AU and one Spirited Away AU. it'll be a miracle if they get posted. 
> 
> Also, hooray for my first Les Mis fic ever. Yay.


End file.
